


Wasteland

by harvest_song



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, One Shot, Post-Apocalypse, Vignette, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 19:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20051494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harvest_song/pseuds/harvest_song
Summary: At the end of the world, all you really have left is each other.





	Wasteland

Glassy, green-gold serpent's eyes scan the skyline, or what remains of it; their owner perching precariously in a crouch on the skeleton of a burned out skyscraper with his massive black wings extended behind him as if he had simply landed that way and forgotten to straighten himself out.

He stares at London as it burns, his gaze longing and wistful.

The soft crunching noise of footsteps behind him alerts him to the presence of another, and he turns around; long, pillarbox red hair gleaming copper in the wan illumination of embers blazing in the distance as he stands and steps off of the ledge.

Ash billows around them, smoke stinging his eyes and sinuses as he regards his one time adversary, whose silent grief casts itself across cornflower blue eyes and an expressive face that speaks to more than words could hope to ever say between them and reflects the hurt of a million losses, of potential unfufilled, and fear of what awaits.

The newcomer, clad in soot smeared, cream colored robes from a place that time and man had long since forgotten, takes his counterpart's hand, spreads his wings- snow white, tinged an iridescent pink in the hazy, reflected glow of a ruined city, and joins him in silent, shared mourning for a future that could have been and for what has ultimately come to pass.

They stand together in silence for several moments, their shadowed relief against hellfire a reverse echo of a time on the outer wall of a garden at the edge of a vast, new, and interesting world.

"This is the way the world ends," The red haired figure finally mutters, the sardonic smile cast across his face at war with his own inner turmoil. His fingers tighten reflexively around his counterpart's, holding onto what, for him, is his last tie to this world God has forsaken. He wears matching robes, as black as the wings stretched behind him.

The angel nods in understanding, staring out into the abyss before them. It is quiet, save for the crackle of hellfire as it consumes what is left of the world around them, returning it to the dust from which it was born.

_Ashes to ashes, dust to dust_. The blonde thinks, as he turns to listen to his eternal counterpart.

"_Not with a bang… but with a whimper_."

**Author's Note:**

> Quote and title are from T.S. Elliot's poem, The Hollow Men
> 
> Unbetaed because I don't have one. 
> 
> Written while under the influence of a monsoon rainstorm and while listening to TOOL. I regret nothing.


End file.
